


I'm Dreaming of an U.N.C.L.E. Christmas

by paulah_GJ



Series: MFU Holiday Stories [3]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Gen, Illya being Illya, OFC - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-14
Updated: 2017-12-14
Packaged: 2019-02-14 21:53:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13016925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paulah_GJ/pseuds/paulah_GJ
Summary: Illya isn't a fan of the Secret Santa bit.





	I'm Dreaming of an U.N.C.L.E. Christmas

“I’m telling you Mr. Waverly,” Dr. Avery stated as he stooped over the desk and peered at the head of UNCLE sternly. “Morale has gone from bad to worse over the past several months. Failures in the field and the death of those two agents in August have turned this place into a tension filled environment where everyone is snapping at each other. It’s unhealthy and any agent going out under that kind of stress is likely to make mistakes. People need a chance to relax and have some fun. Renew their spirits so to speak.”

 

Alexander Waverly paused and took a long draw from his pipe. The smoke curled about his head like a Christmas Wreath. He pondered the Psychiatrist’s recommendations. It wasn’t the way UNCLE normally handled situations like this but perhaps the idea did have some merit.

 

“I can see your point Doctor but UNCLE agents and staff are a very professional group of people. They are not the type to let their hair down and boogie as you put it.”

 

Dr. Avery wasn’t about to be put off by Waverly’s resistance. “I assure you that the corporation I come from has hundreds of employees and a Christmas party is a wonderful way for them to relax and socialize. Having a little fun with the people you work with is excellent for morale.”

 

Waverly stared at him dubiously. "Perhaps, but those companies weren't filled with spies."

 

Avery waved the objection aside. "People are people, whether they are spies or salesmen."

 

"Harrumph!" Waverly snorted. "I hardly think that is the case."

 

Avery's tone hardened. "Mr. Waverly, as Chief Psychiatrist of this company, I believe this is a necessary step. Especially with spies. If they get overly stressed, they don't just go out and take it out on a tennis ball. They are liable to shoot someone."

 

“My people are not trigger-happy, Dr. Avery,” Waverly replied and added. “We are an Organization,” he emphasized the word, “Of highly intelligent law enforcement people.” Even so he tended to think the Psychiatrist was right about the need to relieve stress that had been building in recent months. A party could be the beginning of a change toward the better.

 

Waverly set his pipe down in the ashtray and stood up. His demeanor indicated he wanted to think and Avery remained quiet for the moment. Finally, Waverly turned back toward the irritating man.

 

“Dr. Avery. I will give your suggestion a chance. I’m sure a few of the ladies in the secretarial pool will be willing to help plan it. It will have to be held on the premises for security reasons of course. The cafeteria should do nicely. “

 

Avery lightly pounded the table with a fist in triumph. “Yes! Thank you sir. You won’t regret this.” He stood up and headed toward the door. “I’ll get on it right away.”

 

“Yes. You do that Doctor,” Waverly replied. Before the man was gone, a warning tone informed him, “I am holding you responsible for the success of this mission. I hope you are as reliable as my other agents.”

 

Avery grinned. Finally someone regarded him as a part of the U.N.C.L.E. family instead of an outsider! He stopped at the door, turned, puffed up his chest and stood ramrod straight. Throwing a jaunty salute at his superior, he stated, “You can count on me, Sir!” He spun in a military fashion and exited the office.

 

*~([])~*

 

Alice Plimpton was bored. Trouble spots around the globe had been quiet as of late. Not really an unusual thing this time of year, but it certainly made the days drag when one sat waiting for calls that weren’t going to come. She checked her communications board in case someone was calling in and she’d missed it. She scowled at the mute device. No such luck.

 

She sighed and flopped back in her chair. With nothing better to do, she studied her nails. She frowned at them. This nail polish was ugly. Whorehouse pink, as her father would say. Why she’d chosen it in the first place was beyond her. She’d repaint them tonight. Sex-goddess red. Sounded like a good plan. She looked at the clock. Well. That killed a grand total of three minutes.

 

“Miss Plimpton?”

 

Alice jumped at the unexpected voice. She looked up from her nails to see Dr. Avery standing just inside the doorway. “Yes, Doctor?” she asked warily. What did the staff shrink want with her?

 

“I understand you are quite adept at organizing parties.”

 

She perked up. Party? “Well, yes, I suppose I am.”

Avery rubbed his hands together. “Marvelous! Marvelous! I should like to enlist your help in putting together a Christmas party for UNCLE.”

 

Alice’s eyes brightened. “A Christmas party? For UNCLE? Wow, we’ve never had one of those before. What a terrific idea!”

 

“You’ll help me, then?”

 

“Of course.” She leaned forward. “Just what did you have in mind?”

 

He smiled and crossed his arms as he thought. “Well…. I thought perhaps the standard party things. Mr. Waverly suggested the cafeteria. That will make food and drink easy to serve. Music would be nice. Decorations. Party games. We need something to cheer everyone up.”

 

Alice’s face blossomed with her ideas. She picked up her pencil and made some notes on her scratchpad of things to do. “I’ll need some money for decorations and food.”

 

“I’ll arrange for a moderate budget for you to work with. Try to involve the staff somehow. Get a few people to help you. Maybe a small gift exchange of some kind. Nothing extravagant though,” Avery explained. “Do you think you can handle all that?”

 

She was getting more excited just thinking of the things she could do. “Of course. When are we having the party?”

 

“Two weeks. Is that enough time for you to get things ready?”

 

Alice chewed her lower lip as she thought of the things she had to do for the party. “That doesn’t give us much time but I promise I won’t let you down.”

 

The smile on the woman’s face as he left made Dr. Avery believe he’d gone to the right person and he was pleased his proposal seemed to be taking shape.

 

*~([])~*

 

“Secret Santa?” Illya asked in confusion. “I thought Santa was always supposed to be discreet.”

 

Sarah giggled. Alice had put her in charge of the drawing for the Secret Santa. She shook the box at Illya. “Not that Santa, Illya. You’re Santa for this.”

 

An eyebrow rose. “I’m not Santa. Unless Mr. Waverly is sending me on an assignment as such, at any rate.”

 

The image of the thin, wiry blond agent as Santa danced in Sarah’s head. She thought Illya Kuryakin was as handsome as they came, but the picture of him as an emaciated Santa was rather frightening. Sarah shook her head to clear it of the absurd thought. “No, no, no! You draw a name from the box.” She shook it again. “And then you buy a gift for that person. They’re not supposed to know who it’s from, so you don’t tell anyone who your person is and you don’t put your name on the gift.”

 

Illya pondered this strange custom for a minute. “I suppose that means the stationary stenciled with my name I received from the bank would not be an appropriate gift for the person because they would then know who gave it to them?”

 

Sarah blinked. Was this guy for real? Or was he just playing with her mind? With Section 2 agents you never knew. Especially with this one. “I would say the stationary is definitely out.”

 

“Pity.” He thought a moment more, and then shook his head. “You are very kind for asking me, but I do not wish to participate.” He started to leave.

 

“Uh, Illya, you can’t not participate.”

 

Illya halted mid-stride and turned to face her. An eyebrow climbed until it was practically hidden by his hairline. “Being a, a, Santa Claus is mandatory?”

 

“In this case, yes. Mr. Waverly has ordered that everyone that is in town is required to attend the party and participate in the Secret Santa.”

 

“In that case, Miss Monroe,” he relented. “I shall endeavor to be on assignment at that time.” He spun and stalked away, leaving a sputtering Sarah behind.

 

*~([])~*

 

Napoleon examined the name on the piece of paper he’d drawn. “So how much are we supposed to spend again?” he asked her.

 

Sarah wondered just whose name Napoleon picked. She shifted her eyes trying to see but he saw the move and quickly clutched the paper to his chest.

 

“Ah, ah, ah,” he chided. “No peeking. Your rules, remember?”

 

She giggled a little and relented. “Okay Napoleon. I’ll behave.”

 

“Good,” he said with a charming smile and casually brushed a stray lock of hair away from her face. “Now about the spending limit?”

 

“About five dollars,” she told him. “It’s just for fun and that way everyone can afford something but there’s no saying you have to stick to that. It’s just a suggestion.”

 

“Yes. It does sound like fun,” he agreed. “I’m looking forward to it.”

 

Sarah practically melted as he winked at her before turning on his way. _I hope it’s me,_ she thought to herself.

 

*~([])~*

 

“Who the hell is Mickey Dornbush?” April asked Mark Slate as they walked along the boulevard.

 

“Mickey Dornbush? I haven’t the foggiest,” he replied at the odd sounding name. “But you’re an UNCLE agent. I’m sure you could find out if you started digging.” The smirk he was wearing gave away his teasing.

 

April hit him in the arm and he grabbed his shoulder in mock pain while laughing.

 

“Okay. I surrender.”

 

“That’s better,” she said. “What do you get for someone who sounds like a high school geek?”

 

“Tape for his glasses? Ow!” he said as he grabbed his arm. That one hurt that time.

 

“Who did you get?”

 

Mark frowned at her. “You know we’re not supposed to tell.”

 

“So what?” April said a little less into the jovial spirit of things than he seemed to be. “This whole thing is silly anyway.”

 

“You’re not much into the Christmas spirit,” Mark snapped lightly. “In fact, you sound more like Scrooge.”

 

“You’d sound like Scrooge, too, if you had drawn a name like Mickey Dornbush.” She read the paper in her hand, which listed the man’s known likes and dislikes. “Oh, Mark, it says here he likes worms!” she groaned.

 

“You’re joking, luv!” Mark leaned over and looked at the paper. “He collects worms for a hobby? Who collects worms for a hobby?”

 

“Mickey Dornbush, that’s who. What do you get for a man like this?”

 

“A worm farm?” Mark offered helpfully. He swallowed the grin threatening to erupt on his face before April hit him again. She really packed a wallop. “Really, April, how hard can it be? Get him a pocket protector.”

 

April frowned thoughtfully. “You think that would be a good gift for him?”

 

“He can use it to keep the dirt off him when he puts his worms in his shirt pocket.”

 

April snickered. “How right you are, luv!” She tucked the paper into her purse alongside her gun, and then linked her arm with that of her partner. “Now, how about that lunch you promised me?”

 

*~([])~*

 

Sarah returned to Alice, empty box in hand. Well, almost empty box. There was still one name remaining.

 

“Why is there still one in here?” Alice asked, pulling the paper out.

 

“Well, um, Illya wouldn’t pull a name.”

 

“He wouldn’t?” At Sarah’s head shake, Alice asked, “Did you tell him it was mandatory?” A nod this time. Alice chewed on her lower lip for a moment and then brightened. “Don’t worry. I’ll go talk to Napoleon about it. He knows how to deal with Illya. Who did he get, anyway?”

 

Sarah started giggling. “The Horse,” she gasped between chortles.

 

Alice’s green eyes widened and she said, “Maureen Horowitz?” She stared in horror at the paper. “They hate each other!”

 

Sarah laughed harder. “I know.”

 

*~([])~*

 

Napoleon Solo finished reviewing his report and signed it. As with all of UNCLE’s encounters with THRUSH lately, this one seemed to be another failure. Surely their luck would change soon. In spite of that his mood had already been uplifted with the thought of the Christmas Party. Perhaps it would improve everyone’s outlook on their jobs.

 

Gathering his notes, he was about to organize his file and turn it in when he heard the soft sound of a throat clearing. He looked up and smiled at the sight of the very curvaceous Alice standing in his doorway.

 

“Hi Napoleon. Am I catching you at a bad time?”

 

“Not at all,” he replied. “Come in Alice. What can I do for you?” Napoleon got up, walked around to the front of the desk, and half sat on the edge as she came in.

 

“Well I have a favor to ask you,” she said moving close to him. His aftershave was subtle and more than a little alluring to the female sect.

 

Napoleon raised an eyebrow. “A favor? Sure, if I can. What is it?”

 

Alice touched the lapel of his jacket and ran her fingers down its length as she looked down at the strong chest. “This Secret Santa game we’ve organized.”

 

“Yes?”

 

“It’s Illya,” she said with a pouting face.

 

“Ahhhh….” He threw his head back as if the mere mention of the name was all the explanation needed. “He’s being obstinate, is he?”

 

“Yes. I want this party to be a success and everyone has to do their share. Would you...”

 

Napoleon took her hands away from his coat and held them warmly. “You want me to talk to him for you.” His guess didn’t take a feat of mind reading. All it took was the knowledge of knowing his partner. “Yes. I’ll take care of it,” he told her. “Give me the name and I’ll see to it that he does what he’s supposed to.”

 

“Oh thank you Napoleon,” Alice said leaning even closer, and then she gave him a kiss. She reached into the pocket of her tight fitting skirt and brought out the slip of paper. “I knew you’d help.”

 

Napoleon took the name and cupped it in his hand just as Illya showed up in the doorway. Alice turned and saw Kuryakin coming in. She let go of Napoleon’s hand and opened her mouth to speak but he silenced her with a finger against her lips. “I’ll see you later. You run along now.”

 

Illya side-stepped in order to allow Alice a clear path out the door. When she was gone, he plopped down in the chair in front of Napoleon’s desk. “I gather you have a date for tonight?”

 

Napoleon smiled. “Well, yes. But not with Alice.”

 

“Then what did she want.” He suddenly sat up straight. “Isn’t she in charge of that silly party?”

 

“Yes. Yes, she is.”

 

Illya’s eyes narrowed. “I do not want to play Santa.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “I look terrible in red.”

 

“No, you don’t.”

 

Illya glared at him. “I look terrible in THAT red. I refuse to put on a silly suit and go around shouting ‘HA HA HA!’”

 

Napoleon bit back a snicker. “That’s ‘HO HO HO.”

 

“See? I would make a terrible Jolly Old Saint Dick.”

 

Solo didn’t rise to the bait this time. Instead of allowing Illya to take him off on a tangent, he brought the subject back to the issue at hand. “So you’re not interested in attending the Christmas party at all?”

 

“Since Russians do not celebrate Christmas, I have no problem ignoring it.”

 

Napoleon shook his head sadly. “I’ve never known you to pass up free food, but if you really feel that strongly about it...”

 

Illya’s eyes glinted with greedy interest. “Free food?”

 

“Well, yes. Appetizers, dinner, and an assortment of desserts. Oh, and free liquor.”

 

“Vodka?”

 

“By the rivers,” Solo assured him. Actually, he had no idea if it the alcohol was free or not. If not, he’d buy Illya all the vodka the little Russian could drink--which was considerable. Well, since this was in essence an U.N.C.L.E. venture, he could write it off on his expense account under ‘plying an unwilling subject’.

 

Illya was silent. Napoleon took that as a good sign. “No one is asking you to dress up like Santa. They just want you to buy a five dollar gift for the person you draw from the hat.”

 

“Ah-hah!” Illya cried, sounding as though he’d just found the cure for the common cold. “That is the catch! The food is not free if I’m having to spend five dollars on someone else in order to get it!”

 

“Oh, come on, Illya. Quit being such a Scrooge.”

 

“I’m not a Scrooge. I’m just frugal.”

 

Napoleon guffawed. “Yes. So was Scrooge.”

 

Illya brooded, scowl on his face. He glanced at his partner from under a veil of lashes. “Will there be a lot of food?”

 

“It’ll be running out of your ears.”

 

The strange expression on the blond’s face told Napoleon that the colloquialism had gone right past his friend. It didn’t happen often, but it happened. Those were the times he was reminded English wasn’t Illya’s first language. “Loads of food,” he translated.

 

The Russian thought a minute more, and then nodded his head once. “Very well. I shall go ask Alice to let me draw my name.”

 

“Well, ah, it just so happens there was only one left, so that one’s yours. I haven’t even looked at it yet, so we’ll both be finding out who you have at the same time.” He held the paper out to Illya.

 

With a sigh, the blond took the folded paper and looked at the name within. His eyes widened and face darkened. Napoleon had never seen Illya turn purple before. For a brief moment, Solo was alarmed. He was also curious. Who in the world did the Russian pick for him to get so upset?

 

Illya stared at the paper, and looked up long enough to shoot metaphysical daggers at his partner. “Playing Santa for this person will cost much more than one free dinner. This one will take a dozen.” He paused and thought about it. “For a start.”

 

Napoleon shook his head. “I’ll put it on your list to Santa this year.”

 

*~([])~*

 

Now where was that? Illya knew he would have remembered if he hadn’t moved it so many times in the last three years. It was always getting in his way and causing a nuisance, but he just couldn’t bring himself to throw it away. For one thing, it had been a gift from a little old lady that was so very grateful for his help. Besides, he’d always been taught people didn’t discard such things.

 

He diligently rooted underneath his bed where he found two quarters, two days worth of newspapers, a shirt he’d missed last month, and an assortment of dust bunnies ranging from large to insidiously huge. Unfortunately, he couldn’t find what he was searching for.

 

He stood and closed his eyes. It was in the kitchen cupboard, but he moved it from there when the ants invaded several months after he’d received it. From there it went into the pantry, then under the sink, to under the bed, and finally to . . . Oh yes! The closet! He flung open his closet door and looked into the dark, cobwebbed recesses of the farthest corner. Ah-hah!

 

He pulled out the faded pink and purple box and opened it. The prize sat inside, gleaming in all its glory. Well, perhaps gleaming was the wrong word. It was rather dusty, after all. He swept away the light sheen of dust covering the top and checked it out. Hmmm. A little worse for wear, but not too bad, all things considered.

 

_It will have to do,_ he thought grumpily. He hadn’t wanted to do the Secret Santa nonsense in the first place. But to be expected to spend five dollars, _five whole dollars_ , on Maureen Horowitz was too much. He despised Maureen. Completely, irrevocably, and with extreme malice. She liked him even less. It was a good relationship built on mutual hatred and distrust. Such were the makings of what promised to be a long and fruitful enemy-ship. He didn’t think there was such a word, but it described his and Maureen’s relationship rather well.

 

So to be forced into being her Secret Santa was appalling. He refused to spend a dime on her. There was an American saying regarding the giving of gifts: It’s the thought that counts. He didn’t think much of Maureen Horowitz.

 

He took the box and its contents into the living room where scissors, tape, and a sheet of paper to wrap it in waited. He took a clean cloth and wiped the gift as free of dust as possible. There were a few cracks where the dirt had wedged itself in forever, but it wasn’t really noticeable. He carefully taped the box where it was falling apart, placed it on the sheet of last week’s colored funnies, and wrapped it.

 

*~([])~*

 

Fred Ingersol was psyched. He used his expertise with photography and filming for U.N.C.L.E. on a daily basis to help bring about the demise of THRUSH and other nefarious outfits. But to be asked to actually produce a film about the Command itself was just _fabulous_! And it was going so well! So far, he’d gotten an interview with the head cheese himself, Mr. Alexander Waverly. He’d also shot footage of various secretaries, scientists, security personnel and a couple of the Section 2 agents presently in town. He even managed to coax Napoleon Solo to stop and talk to him and his camera.

 

At the moment, he was on the prowl for more subjects of his documentary. A blond headed man walking fifteen feet ahead of him, nose buried in a file, caught Fred’s attention. Illya Kuryakin! An interview with the mysterious Russian would go wonderfully spliced in with Solo’s segment. Filled with visions of accolades and awestruck groupies for putting the two most handsome agents in the organization on film, Fred hurried to catch up.

 

The hallway was wide enough for him to move around Kuryakin and shove the whirring camera in the blond’s face. “Mr . . .” He didn’t have a chance to say anything else because he found himself pinned to the wall like a butterfly in a glass case. Icy blue eyes bore into his frightened brown ones.

 

“How did you get in here?” the Russian demanded.

 

“I work here,” Fred managed to squeak.

 

The cold gaze flicked to Fred’s chest where an U.N.C.L.E. badge was attached. “Double agent, then.”

 

“No!” Fred gasped in terror. He was going to die. He just knew it. Absurdly, or perhaps perversely, his next thought had to do with not wanting to die in this suit.

 

“Illya!” a feminine voice exclaimed from behind them. “Let him go!”

 

Illya turned his head to regard the newcomer while still maintaining his crushing hold on Fred. “He is filming U.N.C.L.E. Personnel.”

 

Alice placed her fists on her hips. “Yes, as authorized by Mr. Waverly himself!”

 

“Waverly authorized this?” he repeated skeptically.

 

“Yes,” the choking man agreed. “Honest.”

 

Still no happier, Illya let the man go and glared at Alice. “That is a bad idea. If THRUSH were to get their hands on it…”

 

“They won’t,” she insisted. “It won’t leave the building. Its just for the Christmas party.”

 

Fred rubbed his throat and coughed roughly. “Everyone is going to be in it.”

 

Illya gave him one last scathing scowl before he turned his back to him. “Not me.”

 

Alice sighed as Kuryakin left. She turned to Fred and shook her head. “Just do your best. Try to catch him unaware somehow,” she told him.

 

He responded with a doubtful smile and nodded although he wasn’t very hopeful. To make matters worse, the name he’d drawn for the Secret Santa was none other than Illya Kuryakin himself. What did one get for a madman?

 

Madman. Fred rolled it around his tongue, tasting it. A slow, evil grin that would rival that of the Grinch spread across his face.   The best thing to give to a madman was something Mad, of course!   


*~([])~*

 

Two weeks passed quickly and the mood around Headquarters changed considerably. The chatter in the corridors increased and amused anticipation was growing among the staff. A few Christmas decorations had popped up in the strangest places. Even Napoleon felt the Santa staring at him from its place on the bathroom stall door was going a bit far. Here and there the strains of seasonal music served as background to the normal goings on of UNCLE’s activities.

 

The day of the party the cafeteria was closed. The volunteers decorated the room and staff prepared a mouth-watering buffet the envy of all Alexander Waverly thought, as he took a stroll down to see how the plans were coming together.

 

“Ah. Miss Plimpton,” he said as he spotted her directing the hanging of garland. Waverly quickly scanned the room and nodded his approval. “Very nice. Is everything coming together for the party?”

 

Alice handed the loose end of the trim to the man upon the ladder and smiled back at her boss. “Mr. Waverly sir. It’s good to see you here. Do you really like it?” she said puffing up like a peacock in full strut. “Everyone has been so helpful. I think this is going to be wonderful. Thank you for letting us do this.”

 

“Not at all,” Waverly dismissed the gratitude. “Dr. Avery is the one to thank. This was his suggestion.”

 

“Well I’m really glad you allowed it. I think everyone is pretty excited. I know I am.”

 

“Yes. Quite. I have noticed the change in spirits around here as of late.”

 

Alice paused considering her next question but she just had to know because it was getting late and she had to finalize her schedule. “Did you think any more about my request?”

 

“I did Miss Plimpton. I thought it over carefully and after due consideration I’ve decided to acquiesce to your request. I have a list already prepared.” He patted the breast pocket of his jacket. “You may pencil me in for the presentations.”

 

Her face lit up with joy. “That will be just great Mr. Waverly,” she said barely containing her glee. I’m sure it will be the hit of the party.”

 

The prim and proper Head of UNCLE returned her enthusiasm with an understated, “Yes. I have no doubt. Good day Miss Plimpton.” He continued on through the room toward the other exit.

 

Alice couldn’t wipe the grin off her face. She let out a little squeal and was about to do a happy dance when there was a rustling snap from above. Someone said, “Look out!” just as a wreath fell over her head.

 

*~([])~*

 

Napoleon, sequestered in his office, wrapped the gift he bought for the Secret Santa game. He was sure it would be a hit and everyone would be amused. April was always saying how she wanted a pet.

 

It was quite a chore to find a box the right size. In the end he had to go to a specialty store to get one. He even had to piece the tissue he was using to wrap it. The sheets didn’t come in five-foot lengths. His skill with ribbon hid the seams. Luckily air holes weren’t necessary.

 

He stepped back to admire his handiwork. He smiled. April would never figure out what was in it. She might not even figure out what it was after she opened it. His smile turned into a chuckle that sounded suspiciously like, “Ho, Ho, Ho!”

 

*~([])~*

 

Alice was quite pleased with herself, and with the party. U.N.C.L.E. Personnel flocked to the cafeteria, happy smiles on their faces and brightly wrapped packages in their arms. She grinned as Napoleon Solo entered. “My goodness, Napoleon! What on earth do you have in here?”

 

Solo smiled. “You’ll have to wait to find out just like everyone else, my dear.”

 

Alice couldn’t help smiling back. She relieved him of the bulky package. “I’m taking the gifts so the person receiving it doesn’t know who gave it to him or her. For easy redistribution, we’ve arranged the seating. Your table is over there.” She pointed.

 

Her smile faltered and turned into a frown when she saw Illya already seated at the same table. _When did he get here?_ Her frown deepened when she turned to place Solo’s gift with the others. A present wrapped in newspaper comics sat on top of the stack. _And who brought this hideous thing?_

Alice’s questions went unanswered as another of the attendees came in with their Secret Santa gift. Soon Alice was too busy to give the ugly box a second thought. And there wasn’t much she could do about the way people were moving her seating tags around either. She hoped the rest of her plans for the remainder of the evening would come off without any trouble.

 

*~([])~*

 

April Dancer arrived in the cafeteria dressed in a tight, rich red sweater over a tartan skirt and knee-high boots. A Christmas themed broach graced her left shoulder and she smiled, lighting up half the room. She was one of the prettiest women in UNCLE’s employ.

 

Looking around, April spotted Napoleon and Illya. She turned around and grabbed Mark’s sleeve as he entered behind her. “They’re over there,” she told him.

 

Mark followed her pointing hand and grinned. “Might have known Illya would be right next to the food,” he commented.

 

Alice unburdened Slate of the two packages he carried and placed them with the growing stack on the table by the door. “Lets sit with them,” April said and headed toward Solo’s table.

 

Mark looked around as he followed April through the room. The walls were no longer the featureless stark gunmetal gray borders. Garland hung in long graceful loops and 3D tissue bells dangled from the ribs of the hanging ceiling. The gentle conversation in the room was overlain with the soft strains of Christmas tunes played over the PA system. It seemed as if everyone was anxious for the fun to begin.

 

“Mmmm. Something smells good,” Mark announced as he approached Solo’s table.

 

Illya was just returning with his second heaping plate of finger foods from the snack table. Napoleon looked from Mark to Illya and back again before saying, “You might be too late to get any.”

 

Illya glanced up from his plate to the others who were staring at him. “What? The cafeteria was closed. I could not get any lunch,” he complained and then popped a cocktail sausage into his mouth.

 

Napoleon exchanged knowing glances with Mark and April. “If you say so, Illya,” Napoleon said dryly. He took a sip of scotch, grimacing slightly at the taste. “The booze is free, so don’t expect the best,” he told the others.

 

Illya downed his shot of vodka and shrugged. “It does what is required of it.

 

Mark started to ask what, exactly, that entailed in Illya’s opinion when the lights dimmed. Alice stood at the podium in the front of the room, a spotlight centered on her. Her sequined gown glittered every time she moved. Situated behind her was a large, white screen. “Hello, everyone, and Merry Christmas!” Alice gushed, her face aglow with excitement. “Welcome to the first, hopefully annual,” she cast a glance toward Waverly, “UNCLE Christmas party!”

 

She waited for the cheering and applause to die down before continuing. “We’re going to get started with our program in a few minutes, so you still have a little time to get some of the delicious appetizers.” She pointed and the spotlight swung to the buffet and settled on Illya, who was loading yet another plate. “That is, if Illya hasn’t eaten it all, yet.”

 

Everyone burst into laughter. “Leave some for the rest of us, Kuryakin!” someone jeered. Illya’s glare rivaled those he gave THRUSH torturers and when he turned it toward the wielder of the spotlight, the circle of illumination quickly moved back to Alice.

 

Alice cleared her throat a little nervously, regretting she’d let her mouth move before her brain told it what to say. The last thing she needed was for the bloodthirsty Russian to get angry. She wanted this party to go off without a hitch so Mr. Waverly would seriously consider making it a yearly event. “Anyway, help yourself to some nibbles. We’ve got a fun program planned, after which dinner will be served. But stick around when you’re finished eating, because that’s when Santa will hand out all the Secret Santa gifts. We only have one rule for this tonight. You HAVE to open it here so we can all see what you got. I hope you enjoy your evening.” She smiled happily at the explosive applause.

 

*~([])~*

 

Illya got up to get another drink. The room was crowded and he found he couldn’t take two steps in any direction without someone wishing him a Merry Christmas. That wasn’t what bothered him about the party. What bothered him was Napoleon who’d, somewhere somehow, found a sprig of mistletoe and held it above his head whenever the ladies got near enough to notice. Illya was being besieged with lipstick-laden lips and with Waverly in the room he had to be polite. Well as polite as one seriously irritated Russian could be.

 

“Cut that out!” he demanded of Napoleon after Jenny let him go. He sniffed the air as though searching for an offensive odor, and then sniffed his collar. He grimaced and rolled his eyes at the stench of the perfume medley clinging to him. “You will put me off my dinner if you keep this up.”

 

Napoleon gave Kuryakin an innocent smile. “It’s Christmas. You have to at least pretend to like it since you’re in America now.”

 

Luckily for Solo, Illya’s reply was cut off by the sound of Waverly’s amplified voice. “Ermph, good evening ladies and gentlemen.” The ‘gentlemen’ part sounded a little emphasized and his blue-gray eyes stared directly at his CEA and Number Two of Section Two. Napoleon smiled confidently as he redirected his attention to his superior. Illya sent one last optical dagger at his partner before following suit. “I’m pleased to see all of you here tonight.”

 

Eyes still on Waverly, Napoleon’s hand shot out and gently squeezed Illya’s nearest arm. “Not a word,” he whispered harshly out of the corner of his mouth. Illya’s mouth snapped shut and Solo’s hand fell away.

 

“Miss, um, er . . .”

 

“Plimpton,” Alice supplied helpfully.

 

Mr. Waverly didn’t miss a beat. “Plimpton asked me if I would be willing to give out a few awards this evening. After, hurmph, careful consideration, I decided to honor her request.” A pleased murmur rippled through the crowd.

 

“Awards?” Illya quietly muttered to no one in particular. “I don’t want any awards.”

 

“Don’t worry,” Napoleon quipped back. “It’s highly doubtful you’ll get one. Myself, on the other hand . . .”

 

“If Mr. Waverly gives an award for the man with the largest ego, I am absolutely sure it will go to you.”

 

“Before we give those out, however, I believe Miss Plimpton and Mr. … er, Ingersol have put together a little film for us to watch.” He held up his hand toward Illya to forestall the objection he knew the Russian agent was dying to utter. “This should cause no security problems since we are only showing it tonight, after which it will be locked in the ‘Eyes Only’ vault. Even the most security conscious can agree that should be sufficient.” He looked pointedly at Illya, who returned it with false innocence. Waverly harrumphed, before continuing. “Mr Ingersol, roll the film, if you please.”

 

He returned to his chair as the house lights dimmed and the screen behind the podium sprang to life.   It showed the men and women of the U.N.C.L.E. scurrying through the metal-gray halls. “This is the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement,” Alice’s voice narrated on the film. “What are we about, exactly? Are we about the gadgets?” The film showed UNCLE scientists testing various gadgets. “The cutting edge technology?” The film panned the computer room and Communications, Security. “Are we about saving the world?” A scene of the UNCLE logo was accompanied by dramatic music. “Well, yes,” Alice’s voice started again. “We’re all of that. But, we’re also about people. And the best people of all are you, the agents of UNCLE.”

 

The music swelled, and the film darkened, fading back in to a close-up of the smiling face of Napoleon Solo. Behind Solo, his office door swooshed opened and a foot stepped through and into the shot. It pulled back quickly and the door swooshed shut again. Napoleon didn’t seem to notice the aborted intrusion. “Hello. For those of you who don’t know me, I’m Napoleon Solo, Chief Enforcement Agent of the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement.”

 

“And if you’re a woman, give him time. He’ll get around to meeting and dating you eventually,” a voice, that wasn’t Alice’s, said. It was a man’s voice. A lightly accented, melodic voice. And, judging by Alice and Fred’s reaction, a voice that wasn’t supposed to be part of the film.

 

A rumble of laughter at the remark echoed throughout the room. Illya leaned closer to Napoleon and whispered, “A disgruntled fan of yours I believe.”

 

Napoleon nodded with a flick of his eyebrows as the film continued.

 

The scene changed to that of the Head of UNCLE’s office and Waverly giving the camera a quick wave before turning back to the large screen behind his desk on some briefing.

 

“Our gracious leader honors us with a brief moment of his time as he tracks Santa Claus on his trek south from the North Pole,” the narration stated.

 

Another round of laughter tittered through the room.

 

The next portion was a tour of the labs where a quick flash of blond hair disappeared under a protective hood. Then the rest of the technicians gathered to wave at the cameraman.

 

“UNCLE’s finest people working hard to make sure THRUSH never gets the jump on us.”

 

One Tech mugging for the camera poured one vial into a beaker and it started to foam madly, overflowing and spreading out over the counter. Through the panicked voices one man snapped at the other, “Jeezus. Watch what you’re doing.”

 

“Hey Charlie. Is that what you do instead of your Saturday night bubble bath?” an anonymous voice in the crowd called out.

 

Napoleon looked at Illya. The Russian ignored Solo and shook his head at the screen. “Two weeks work down the drain.”

 

The film continued showing all of UNCLE’s personnel at one point or another. Napoleon’s reputation was intact as there were at least five shots of him getting up close and personal with more than one lady who worked there. The only exception was Illya Kuryakin who, at every opportunity, ducked, sidestepped, or simply turned and ran from the camera. All anyone saw of him was an elbow, leg, hand or ear at any one time. If you spliced them all together you could say he was in the film. The audience was commenting on just that when the final scene came up. Illya Kuryakin was walking directly toward the camera wearing his usual scowl.   His fist was like lightning and the picture suddenly went blank. Then the letters –The End - came up on the dark background.

 

The house lights brightened again and Alice stood up. “I’d like to thank Fred Ingersol for his dedication in getting this job done for our entertainment.”

 

There was applause as Fred stood up and curious murmurs as he turned around to face everyone. He was sporting an eye patch and a large bruise on the bridge of his nose.

 

Almost everyone turned their attention to Illya. Kuryakin simply shrugged and looked toward the bar. In the relative silence he asked, “Is there any more vodka?”

 

Waverly stepped back to the podium. “Excellent film, Mr. Ingersol. Mr. Kuryakin, I’d like to see you in my office on Monday.” Although no one was willing to incur Illya’s wrath by laughing outright, a number of hardy souls snickered. Waverly gestured for silence before things got bloody. “It is now time for the presentation of the awards.”

 

Illya didn’t really pay attention to the presentations. It was highly doubtful he would receive anything. Not that he cared. The best reward UNCLE could give him at this moment was dinner. He cast longing glances at the nearby buffet where cafeteria workers were taking out the appetizers and replacing them with steaming pans of turkey, dressing, ham, mashed potatoes, yams, and other traditional holiday dishes.

 

“Illya!”

 

The Russian startled, was pulled from his salivating by his partner’s hiss. “What?”

 

“Get up there! Waverly just called your name!”

 

Illya noticed everyone looking at him expectantly. Mr. Waverly appeared to be getting a bit impatient. “Oh.” He rose and gracefully wended through the tables to the podium. Waverly handed him a small trophy and shook his hand. “Congratulations, Mr. Kuryakin,” the Head of UNCLE said gravely, shaking his agent’s hand.

 

“Um, thank you. You are very kind.” Mr. Waverly slipped his fingers from Illya’s grasp and slipped a small object into Illya’s hand. Illya studied the trophy as he returned to his table.

 

“What did you get?” Solo prompted.

 

Illya held up a brass base upon which a spent brass shell casing was mounted. “Most Bullets Fired in a Single Shootout” was stamped on a little brass plate mounted to the base.  

 

Napoleon chuckled. “My, my. Went crazy with the bullets, did you?”

 

“The more appropriate award would have been ‘Most Confirmed Kills in a Single Shootout,’” Illya deadpanned.

 

Napoleon opened his mouth to retort when he heard Mark’s name called. Wearing an expression of dismay on his face, Slate shuffled to the front to receive his award. “Did anyone hear what it was for?” he asked his tablemates. Both Illya and April shrugged. Within a minute, Mark returned holding two bronzed left shoes. His three tablemates stared at them.

 

“What did you win?” April finally quipped. “Worst dancer?”

 

Mark shrugged nonchalantly, but his reddened face told a different story. He wordlessly handed the trophy to April who read it and, giggling, handed them to Illya. Napoleon leaned over to look at the little brass label attached to the toe of one shoe. “Most Creative THRUSH Capture,” Illya read. He frowned. “What is it talking about?”

 

Mark reddened even more. He toyed with the stiff bronzed shoestrings. “Remember a few months ago during the cleanup of that Satrap in St. Louis.” Illya and Napoleon nodded. April giggled harder. “Well, I accidentally tripped a secret trapdoor and fell on the leader of that particular nest who had hidden underneath it.”

 

He glanced up from under his brows to see their reactions. Napoleon was smiling broadly, obviously enjoying his discomfort. Illya’s face had gone blank, which Mark knew meant he was trying to keep an extra strong hold on his emotions. In this case, unmitigated mirth. The British agent grinned, then held the shoes aloft as though he held an Academy Award. “This makes the bruising and broken arm worth it!”

 

Illya looked away, but not before Mark saw the Russian’s chest shaking with silent laughter and the look of amusement twinkling in the blue eyes.

 

A few minutes later, Waverly’s drone was replaced by Alice’s bright tones. “Well, I’m hungry! How about the rest of you?”   There was a murmur of agreement.

 

*~([])~*

 

Illya was at the buffet table, plate in hand before Alice was finished with the announcement for dinner. A small hand gently took his wrist, the one holding the forkful of turkey. He looked over at the owner of the appendage.

 

“Uh, Illya,” Sarah whispered in his ear. “The cafeteria personnel have asked if you would mind being the last one in line. They want to make sure there will be enough for everyone.”

 

Illya rolled his eyes and sighed. With an air of indignation, he served himself a modest portion as if to prove the observers wrong, and returned to his table to eat. _I can always go back for seconds… and thirds… and fourths._

 

Mark and April returned to the table at almost the same time. The two of them were sharing a mutual smirk and Illya looked around to see what was so amusing. He spotted the source to be Napoleon Solo surrounded by three of the female UNCLE staff all eager to help him choose the best morsels for his plate.

 

“It will be cold by the time he gets back to eat it,” Illya stated and returned his attention to his own plate.

 

April began eating as Mark started spicing up his meal with pepper. “I didn’t think you cared much about food other than to eat it,” she said. “You eat pate the same way you eat a hot dog.”

 

The Russian shrugged. “They are both ground meat products mixed with spice.”

 

Mark shook his head at April’s comment. “Yeah. Didn’t you know that?”

 

“You men are all the same. No wonder Napoleon attracts the women like flies. The rest of you are like country bumpkins.” April gave up and started eating her meal.

 

When Napoleon finally returned to the table he had a plate full of food and two more colors of lipstick on his cheeks.

 

*~([])~*

 

Dinner went on for about three quarters of an hour followed by another half hour for the sumptuous dessert bar. The entire table watched Illya sample bits of everything including a large piece of the triple chocolate cake. April was almost nauseated thinking about all the food Kuryakin consumed. She couldn’t understand how he could sit there and not be moaning and groaning in pain.

 

Alice Plimpton noticed the growing restlessness as dinner was coming to a conclusion. She thought that it was a good time to begin the piece de resistance. She got up and signaled for the table containing the gifts to be wheeled up to the front. Again she took her position as MC of the evening behind the microphone.

 

“Is everyone full? Lets give a hand to the wonderful staff that prepared dinner. “Chef Martello. Come take a bow please.”

 

The cook came out, resplendent in a bright white apron, tall white hat, and a wide, toothy white smile. Once the applause died down, Alice spoke again. “Now, without further ado, I’m going to turn the program over to our Secret Santa coordinator, Sarah Monroe.”

 

The clapping was louder this time and accompanied by cheers and catcalls. Sarah smiled as she took over the podium. “Since many of you changed your seating around, we’ve decided it would be easier to just call your name and let you come get your gift. I ask that you wait until all the gifts are handed out, and then we’ll all open them together. How’s that sound?”

 

Murmurs of agreement spurred her on and she took the microphone over to the pile of gifts. “I need a couple of little Santa’s elves to help with this.” Several people jumped up and hurried to the pile. The helper would pick up a package and showed it to Sarah, who read out the name.

 

Sarah’s eyes crossed when the comic-strip covered package was held up. “What an, um, interesting wrapping job,” she commented. “I bet the present inside is just as horren... er, interesting as the packaging.” Titters met her comment as she read the tag. “Maureen Horowitz.” Suddenly the wrapping paper made perfect sense. It was one of the few people whose Secret Santa’s identity was known to her. Illya Kuryakin. _Oh, boy. This should be something._

The remainder of the gifts were handed out quickly and smoothly. When the last package had been retrieved, Sarah turned to the audience. “Okay, everyone. Open your presents!” Sounds of ripping paper filled the air.

 

Almost immediately, there was a high-pitched, highly angry shriek. “Who!”

 

Everyone stopped in the middle of opening their gifts and looked over at the noise. Maureen Horowitz, surrounded by a pile of colored newspaper comics, held up a box--a faded pink, extremely taped up box. “Who gave me THIS?” she demanded. She shook the box slightly.

 

Along with everyone else, Sarah watched in morbid fascination as the bottom, which was not taped, fell opened and a round fruitcake fell out, hitting Maureen’s table with a loud THUNK! Not a squish, as would be expected from a soft, chewy fruitcake. A thunk.

 

Maureen stared at the thing in horror. She picked it up and rapped it on the side of the table. A small chunk of formica spun off the table edge, but the fruitcake remained intact. “It’s petrified!” she screeched.   “And it even has a bite out of it!” She shook it over her head. “WHO! GAVE! ME! THIS?!”

 

Napoleon elbowed Illya in the ribs. “You little rat,” he said accusingly in a very low voice. He knew the Russian had to be the culprit. All he got in return was an expression of innocence.

 

Illya whispered back. “I heard you were supposed to pass fruitcake around. I did not want to break with tradition.”

 

The stunned silence was finally broken by Mr. Waverly’s calm voice. “Miss Horowitz,” he said. “I’m sure it was given in the proper spirit.” The combination of amusement and consternation in his eyes said he didn’t believe a word of it himself, but order needed to be maintained. “Now, since we know what Miss Horowitz received, I’d like to share my gift with everyone.”

 

There was another wave of laughter as the big floppy brimmed hat was placed on his head and dropped down covering his eyes. Napoleon lowered his eyes in sympathetic embarrassment and shook his head at Mark. Only Mark would have given someone a hat like that.

 

“I think it looks good on the old boy,” Mark stated proudly.

 

Waverly good-naturedly kept the hat on and raised his arms in invitation. “Please. Those of you who haven’t done so, open your gifts.”

 

The sound of paper tearing and ribbons ripping once again filled the room. It was followed by oos and aws and chuckling as everyone saw what they’d received. Even those at UNCLE’s top agent’s table had surprises in store.

 

Napoleon’s face turned as red as the bright red hearts on the boxer shorts he pulled out of the package labeled for him. They’d obviously come from a five and dime store by the coarse quality of the fabric.

 

Illya leaned over. “I hope they do not come from one of our male staff members,” he said with a twinkle of amusement in his eyes.

 

“As long as they didn’t come from you I’m probably safe,” Napoleon needled back.

 

April laughed and opened her gift. She frowned as she lifted what looked like a stiff dog collar attached to an even stiffer dog leash. “What is it?”

 

“Oh!” Illya exclaimed, snatching the strange apparatus from her. “It’s one of those invisible dogs.” He turned to Napoleon. “Remember we saw these a couple of months ago during that affair in Six Flags Over Texas?”

 

Napoleon nodded. “So it is.”

 

Illya stood and demonstrated how it worked. He held it by the end of the leash with the collar part close to the ground, and then walked around. It looked like he was walking a dog.

 

April raised her eyebrows and wondered who would think she’d want something like that. “That’s very, um, interesting.” As she took the leash from Illya and placed her present on the table, she looked around to see what Mickey Dornbush looked like since she’d been in the ladies room when his gift was given out. She was expecting to see some pimple faced dork with a nasally guffaw for some reason. Instead she was shocked to see a Bronzed Adonis in the opposite corner of the room examining the pocket protector she’d given him. He had a look of puzzled disgust on his face.

 

“Napoleon,” April prodded the CEA. “Who is that guy? “Please tell me that’s not Mickey Dornbush.”

 

As he stuffed the underwear back into the box he looked over to where she was pointing. “Uh… Oh him? Yeah. He’s a champion sport fisherman. He’s got a few trophies for it too.”

 

“Oh God,” she said as lowered her face into her hands. “Boy do I feel stupid now.”

 

Mark was chuckling at her. “I guess that’s why he raises worms.”

 

Napoleon glanced over at Dornbush and smiled when he saw what was in the man’s hand. “You gave Ironman Dornbush a pocket protector? He seldom wears a shirt with a pocket. He’ll never get to use it.”

 

“Ironman?” April moaned. “His nickname is Ironman?” She shook her head, glad that the man didn’t know who’d given him the ridiculous gift. “So what did you get?” April asked changing the subject.

 

Mark put on a frumpy smile and pulled out the rather dull dark grey clip on bowtie. “I think someone thinks I need to dress more formally.”’

 

“I guess they don’t think you can tie one properly yourself either,” she snickered.

 

“I’d be glad to give you lessons,” Napoleon offered.

 

Illya turned the parcel over in his hands. It was large and rectangular and flat. It had the supple quality of paper. He studied it wondering if he really wanted to know what was in it or not.

 

Napoleon prodded Illya in the side again. “Go on. You might as well open it before the whole room looks at you wondering what it is.”

 

Again Illya growled lowly. “I did not what to play this stupid game.” He just knew he wouldn’t like it. No one else seemed to like theirs.

 

“Just open it Illya and get it over with,” Mark told him.

 

After letting out a sigh of resignation he pulled the thin red string binding the paper in place. He unfolded the wrappings and found a couple magazines inside. He held them up examining the covers. “Mad Magazine.” It looked like it was full of comics. “What is this Mad Magazine?” he asked as he thumbed through it.

 

Napoleon laughed. “It’s not your mainstream scientific journals. That’s for sure.”

 

April was puzzled as Illya broke out into a smile. The Russian was actually chuckling to himself. “What’s so funny?”

 

He held up a couple pages. “This Spy verses Spy.” He slid down in his chair, flipped the magazine back to the first page, and started to read.

 

People moved from table to table, showing gifts, swapping gifts, and laughing at other people’s gifts. No one approached Maureen, who sat scowling at the fruitcake, then glaring at various people as she tried to figure out who had given her the despicable thing. Her hateful stare fell on Kuryakin more than once.

 

Illya remained oblivious to it all, although he twitched slightly everytime Maureen’s malevolent stare settled between his shoulders. Eventually he finished reading the second magazine. “I wonder who my Secret Santa is,” he said. Napoleon didn’t hear him, to busy chatting up several secretaries. April and Mark were mingling at other tables.

 

Illya sat up and looked around. No one seemed to be paying an inordinate amount of attention to him. Except Fred Ingersol. When Illya’s gaze landed on him, Fred colored and looked quickly away. It had to be him. Illya took his Mad Magazines and worked his way toward Fred. The filmmaker’s eyes opened wide when he saw the Russian heading toward him. All he could do was inch his way in the opposite direction.

 

Fred’s heart lurched when he lost sight of Illya and then suddenly he appeared directly in front of him. “Oh, um, Mr. Kuryakin,” he stuttered, glancing around in hopes of finding someone who could protect him. No one. He looked back to the Russian, wondering if he would aim for his other eye this time.

 

Illya held up the magazines. “Did you give me these?”

 

An emphatic ‘no!’ was on the tip of Fred’s tongue, but in spite of that he heard himself squeak, “Yes.” Oh, God. Did he actually admit to it? He was going to die! “H… how did you know?” After he died, he would kill whoever ratted him out.

 

“I am a spy,” Illya answered dryly.

 

“Oh. Um, ahem, yes. I guess you are.”

 

“Where can I get more?”

 

Fred blinked in surprise. “More Mad magazines?”

 

“Yes! They’re wonderful! I would like to read more.”

 

Fred reached around until his hand touched a chair. He lowered himself into it with shaky legs. “Um, well, anywhere you can buy magazines. But I gave you this month’s issue already.” He glanced at Kuryakin, taking in the shining eyes.   _Should I?_ Well, the Russian would be a good man to have as a friend rather than an enemy. “I have some back issues, though,” Fred blurted. “You can borrow them if you’d like.”

 

“I would like that very much. Thank you.” Illya smiled. It was bright, sunny, and something Fred Ingersol would have sworn would never grace the face of the Russian madman. It looked good on him.

 

“My pleasure.”

 

“Oh, and Fred,” Illya said, still smiling.

 

“Yes, Illya?” Fred said, relaxing in the glow of that smile. He was thinking about all the perks that could come from being friends with Illya Kuryakin. No one would threaten to beat him up again, that was for sure.

 

“Don’t ever try to film me again, or I will break your arms.”

 

“Don’t worry,” Fred replied nervously laughing. “I’ve given up doing home movies for UNCLE.”

 

Illya gave the man a pat on the back. A moment ago Fred wondered if such a gesture would have had a knife buried between his shoulder blades. Now he discretely turned his face and chuckled as, from somewhere, Napoleon appeared and held a sprig of Mistletoe above the Russian’s head.

 

HAVE A VERY

MERRY CHRISTMAS

AND A

HAPPY NEW YEAR


End file.
